On Turpentine Lane(74)

Her first question was “Does he seem happy?”

“On a scale of one to ten? I’d give it a four.”

“And would you put it at four for Tracy, too?”

“She’d probably give herself an eight-point-five. But this is very unscientific.” I advised her to tread lightly, to repeat none of that to Dad. “On the other hand, if he writes you about last night’s visit, would you forward those e-mails to me?”

“He asked me not to show it to you.”

“How about reading it to me?”

“Faith, let’s make a deal. You won’t ask to read every e-mail your father sends, and I won’t quiz you about Tracy. Deal?”

I said, “That’s a lousy deal. He’s my father. Tracy is the common enemy. She’s renamed him Hank.”

“If there’s something I think you should see, I’ll forward it.”

“Did he say anything about Nick?”

“He said he thought Nick was a mensch.”

“And I was a brat? And we left in a big huff?”

“You’re not tricking me into any more information swapping”—quickly followed by “Oops.”

“Oops what?” I asked.

“Photos. Can we make an exception to our deal? I assume you took one of Tracy?”

I had, as she’d requested. But the two I’d snapped showed Tracy looking young, Titian haired, laughing, and happy—even better and taller than in person—so much so that I’d deleted it.

I said, “Oh, darn. I forgot.”

“Is it Nick?” she asked. “Your new lack of focus?”

“It depends. Are you going to fight me on that?”

“Why would I? Is anything sacred? I married a Jewish man from a Jewish home, and where am I now? Alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

“You know what I mean. My husband left me for a trophy paramour who thinks he’s an artistic brand instead of an artist.”

“Hank Frankel,” I said, “walking cliché.”

“Who’s sorry now?” she asked.





44





Is That a Yes?


ADDING TO THE CURSES visited upon 10 Turpentine Lane, I would count the sudden appearance of Brooke. Was she surveilling the house? At least on this Friday it seemed that way, since our doorbell rang approximately five minutes after we pulled in the driveway.

It took me a few seconds to grasp who this was on my porch in high-heeled boots and a fur coat made of something white and sheepdog shaggy. I heard no hello, no apology for dropping in unannounced. “Is Nick home?” she asked.

I said, “Hi, Brooke. I’m the doorman, Faith. We met at your party”—in a tone meant to remind her of her past unpleasantness.

“I need to speak to Nick,” she said.

I left her on the porch, in a show of no greater hospitality than what I’d extend to a purveyor of religious brochures. Nick was reading the sports page splayed on the kitchen table, so involved in March Madness that he hadn’t taken his coat off yet. “You have a visitor on the porch,” I said. “It’s Brooke. I’ll go upstairs.”



Why didn’t he yell to me when the coast was clear? I came down after hearing the door slam shut and a car roar off. “What did she want?” I asked.

She wanted him. She’d changed her mind and was rescinding the marriage ultimatum. Any timetable, any venue, any kind of ring, even none, would be okay. Could they try again without any pressure or deadlines?

“And your answer was . . . ?”

“I think you can guess.”

No, I couldn’t. I was afraid to guess, because bad news—especially lately—simply flew in the window in the form of uniformed policemen, brazen women, and the undead. He went back behind his newspaper, feet crossed on the coffee table, leaving me uninformed and paralyzed. And worse, he was humming.

“Nick?”

He lowered the page and smiled.

“Not funny!” I cried.

“You earned it—ye of little Faith.”

I plopped down next to him. “So, did you say, ‘Sorry, Brooke, that ship has sailed’? And for good measure, ‘Even though it’s only been a few months since I’ve been with Faith . . . when the right one comes along—’?”

“Pretty close.”

I motioned, coachlike. More please.

“I told her everything had changed. She asked when, and I said, ‘Oh, about a week after I moved in.’?”

“Did I know that?”

“You should. You started it.”

He liked to say that. It referred to my appearance at the breakfast table, on Christmas morning, scantily clad—a standing joke. Faith as wanton woman. I didn’t mind one bit.



Stuart called, asking to speak to Nick, apparently soon after Brooke returned to their apartment. I said, “Can I take a message?”

“How about you forward me to his cell?”

“I don’t know how to, and wouldn’t if I could. Case closed.”

“I’ll just say it then. Brooke poured her heart out to him. It took days for her to work up the courage and lay it all out on the line. He sent her away without even a hug.”